


until the sun no longer shines, until the stars fall from the sky, until the rivers all run dry

by DeadHero



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Consensual kind of drunk sex, Ducktales (2017) can have a little f/m rights. as a treat, F/M, Flirting, Louie's Eleven Spoilers, Non-Explicit Sex, Trans Donald Duck, did you guys SEE the way they looked at one another?, so much of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23853127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadHero/pseuds/DeadHero
Summary: After Glamour's party, Donald and Daisy accidentally part without getting the other's number. Weeks later, they find each other at a nightclub.
Relationships: Daisy Duck/Donald Duck, José Carioca/Donald Duck/Panchito Pistoles, in the past but it's a little noticeable yknow
Comments: 13
Kudos: 130





	until the sun no longer shines, until the stars fall from the sky, until the rivers all run dry

**Author's Note:**

> ahhhhh i completely wrote this up while two separate times I got high today bc quarantine and its the weekend and new ducktales episodes! this is sixteen pages on my google doc, isn't beta'ed/barely edited, and by god I haven't written that much in literal months. but just!!!!!!!!!! did you fucking see this shit oh my god. i wasn't even a fan of dondaisy before this episode what on earth. hmu @ fan-art-ic.tumblr.com ! and the title is from "baby I'm yours" by the arctic monkeys bc that song gets to me, yknow?

Donald and Daisy both wished their first time had gone differently. (First time meaning sex? A kiss? A date? All of the above, unfortunately).

Maybe when the girls ask, Daisy will tell her nieces April, May, and June something cute and a little sweet. Like that after meeting at Glamour’s gala, she had gotten Donald’s number and a week later had gone out at a hole-in-the-wall cafe. (They only had a free morning match-up, but as both ducks were very busy neither wanted to give-up sleep and agreed to meet for a nice brunch). It had gone well and they kept seeing each other when they got the chance.

When the kids inevitably ask, Donald might tell Webby, Huey, Dewey, and Louie something about forgetting to get Daisy’s number, but later she had tracked him down on Waddlebook and they had gotten to talking and one time he had a free day and everyone was out, he and she met up at the Duckburg AMC to watch that new action chick flick. (It had gone better than he expected, Donald will admit, and when Webby asks if they kissed, he’ll turn scarlett under his feathers). The next time he and Daisy’s schedules match up, he might tell the kids, they plan to meet-up

Neither of these dates were the first, however.

For Donald it begins not too long ago (but a few weeks after the party) while video calling José and Panchito. It makes sense, in hindsight, given how Donald always finds himself in unexpected situations with those two egging him on.

“Soooo, have you seen that lady again?” Panchito ends up asking directly and José cackles over his shoulder, the two of them on the bed of some motel in Mexico. “What,” Panchito laughs when José smacks his shoulder, “I'm right! And look at him, Donald, you're red as a pepper.”

Donald squawks. “Hey!” And then swears when he nearly falls out of the hammock. Panchito and José both are laughing.

“Aww, Donal’,” José’s bright laugh comes through the tinny speakers. “You have seen Glamour’s assistant again, yes? Ms. Duck was it?” 

“Daisy,” Donald croaks. “Daisy Duck.”

“Daisy Duck, what a name.”

“And what a _kick_!” Panchito chimes in. “And that finishing move! That giant pot right over that falcon’s head? _What a lady.”_

“Yeah,” Donald sighs, “what a lady.” Over the phone, he can see José and Panchito glance at each other and then give the camera a dubious look.

“You need to see her again,” José says seriously. “That woman was like magic to you.”

“But I didn't get her number! She went to take care of some kitchen problem and then we had to rush back to the manor because of that fairy infestation,” Donald tries to explain. His friends give him equally incredulous looks. 

“Does she not have a Waddlebook?” Panchito asks, eyebrows raising. “Or do you still refuse to make one?" José laughs when Donald’s eyes go wide and he looks away. “Donald!” Panchito yells. “Get with the times, man!”

Donald shuts the phone face down and away from his sheepish face. Panchito calls him a coward and he lets the camera back up. “I’m not getting a Waddlebook! I didn’t need one for my entire life, and I’m not gonna need one for the rest of it!”

“ _Ay, caramba,_ ” Panchito shakes his head, “there’s no reasoning with you.” José laughs even more and nudges his partner.

“Well, even if you’ve let Ms. Duck getaway, you really should find someone,” José tells Donald. “You always have us when we come around, and we have phone calls, but we’re rarely even on the same continent.”

Donald sighs. “I know, and I’d like to, I just, you know there’s the kids-”

Panchito scoffs. “Maybe last year, before you reconnected with your uncle. But especially now with your uncle, Della is back, there is Mrs. Beakley, the ghost, ah, what was his name-”

“That’s Duckworth, the butler,” José interjects, and Panchito nods.

“-And Duckworth. There are more than enough adults around to keep an eye on the boys and get them out of trouble. You need a little more Bahía in your life, Donald,” the rooster finishes.

Donald is silent for a long moment, with Panchito’s eyebrows going higher on his forehead and José looking at him expectantly.

“So….” He trails out and Panchito facepalms. José snickers at his partner’s distress and friend’s repression. 

“So,” José says, “go to a club! Go dancing! You, Mr. Fauntleroy Duck,” he says, trilling the _r_ harder than necessary, “have got some moves! Don’t look away! I know you do!” José laughs in between words when Donald glances away at the ceiling. “Go to a nightclub, have some fun, maybe buy a drink for a cute bird.” José wiggles his shoulders. “Loosen up.”

“Loosen up, Donald,” Panchito yells and Donald has to move is phone away from his face.

“I mean,” he starts, and his friends are already cheering as he says, “I _guess_ so".

“That’s the spirit! You got this,” Panchito tells Donald with confidence, who can already feel himself smiling.

“Yeah,” Donald says, “I got this.” His friends cheer again from Mexico and all the way in Calisota Donald feels that confidence as well . “Alright,” he says glancing at his beat-up alarm clock. “It’s nearly eight here, and the family shouldn’t be back until tomorrow night, so I guess I could do it tonight.”

Panchito whistles. “Look at you, Mr. Go-getter.” Donald begins to flush at his own impulsiveness and José chuckles before nudging Panchito, who elbows him back.

“Alright, well, we’ll let you go then, I’m sure we can get up to our _own_ troubles tonight,” José smirks and Donald rolls his eyes.

“Love you José. I love you, Panch.”

“Love you, Donald!” He hears chorused back to him and they wave and he ends the video chat. Well, Donald swings his feet over the side of the hammock. Guess he’s going out tonight.

Across town, Daisy Duck is on the phone with her sister, Dahlia. 

“I just, don’t know what to do, Dal, you know I’m the best at finding people, and he’s just not on the internet,” Daisy sighs. “At this point, I might have to get out the phonebook, but I don’t wanna be desperate.” She glances over at the wine bottle on the kitchen counter with a longing gaze from her position on her new couch. 

“Girl, if he wanted to be found he wouldn’t have just left you at the IT party, that was just rude,” Dahlia says and Daisy droops into the cushions more. 

“I really didn’t need to be falling for another guy, so this could just be the universe telling me to get over myself,” Daisy cringes to herself. She grabs a throw pillow and pulls it over her face. This was so dumb, Donald was just some guy, and she can’t even find him, and he left when Daisy had to go make sure the kitchen fire was contained, and well, she was Daisy Duck.

“I’m Daisy Duck, damnit,” Daisy curses.

“You’re Daisy Duck, goddamnit,” Dahlia agrees. “You need to go out and find someone nice, and maybe strong! Someone who will buy you a drink and stay to get your number.”

“Yeah!” 

“You just got that check from signing on for that design contract or however fashion works, right? Go use some of that money, Daze. Go have fun.”

Daisy sits up and brushes the corn chip crumbs off her sweats. “Alright! I guess I’ll go have fun.” She can hear Dahlia cheering over the speaker. “Love you, Dal, I’ll call you later,” she tells her sister.

“Text me tomorrow! Love you!” is Dahlia’s parting reply, and the buzz tone rings in Daisy’s ear.

“Well,” Daisy says and looks around her apartment. “I guess I’m going out tonight.” She glances down. “Ugh, I need to get changed.”

About an hour later, she’s ready. Hair done, bow tight, shoes nice, and dress that she custom made on. Daisy grabs her purse and pulls on a light jacket. It’s still April, after all. She checks her phone for the bus schedule and makes her way to the correct stop. Up until Daisy settled into her seat, she had been focused and ready-to-go. Now she’s worried.

It had been a while since Daisy had gone out to a club, much less by herself. It must have been in her college years, and those were so far gone now. God, was she getting old? She was only thirty-seven, but with all the makeup ads and the high-maintenance models Daisy ran into on her job, she wasn’t sure. And okay, so anyone who cared if she wasn’t young enough, they don’t matter. She looks great, she quite literally dazzled a guy recently, she knows how to talk to people. She’s Daisy Duck, damnit, and she’s going to have a good time tonight.

“Seventh Avenue and Thirteenth!” The bus driver calls out and the bus lurches to a stop, narrowly avoiding a crash. 

Oh, it’s time to get off.

Daisy pulls her purse closer and yells out a thank you as she steps off the bus. She begins to make her way to the Silky Pheasant, an almost upscale nightclub in downtown Duckburg. A night there wouldn’t be as fun or wild as Dahlia probably hoped, but Daisy had been there with friends before and knew where the bathrooms were.

She manages to get in quickly and squeezes her way to the nightclub’s bar. She elbows an overly tall dog in a polo out of the way and tries to hail the bartender.

“Hi! Could I get something fun with not too much alcohol?” Daisy asks and, after a few minutes, has something electric pink in her hand with a little umbrella. “Thank you!”

She somehow gets past the worst of the crowd around the bar without spilling her drink, but after that, she isn’t sure where to go. She doesn’t have friends at a table to hang out with, and she wasn’t meeting anyone. Daisy is just here by herself. Her pink drink is less fun by the second.

And then, she spots him. He’s in the corner, staring out onto the dance floor with some kind of longing and frustration twisting his handsome face. He also has the fun drink. Without thinking twice, Daisy makes her way over to Donald Duck.

When she gets closer, she can see he’s still wearing the sailor uniform, but it’s spiffier somehow, a little tighter around the arms and chest. His head feathers seem to have been gone over with a brush, but some stick out errantly from the rest. “Ditched the hat I see?” She says, raising her voice a bit to be heard over the music. She might admit it later, but seeing the duck startle and look dumbstruck when he notices her is a little gratifying. “Too bad, I liked it.”

“Uhhhhhhh,” is all Donald says and she rolls her eyes.

“Right, I see,” she frowns. “I’ll leave you to it.” And she turns around, puts a heel forward, and her purse tugs against her shoulder.

“Wait!”

Daisy turns back around to face Donald, whose hand is still holding onto her purse strap. She glances at it and he lets go like he’s been burned. “Yes?” She finally asks him, staring him in the eye. 

“I, uh, I apologize,” Donald says slowly, not meeting her gaze at first, but then he looks up at her. “I’m sorry that I had to leave before we exchanged numbers at the gala, or, not even exchange, I guess, just that I left before you got back from the kitchen,” he finishes and heat rushes to Daisy’s face.

This is unexpected. “You remember that there was something wrong with the kitchen?” Is the first thing that comes out when she opens her mouth. He looks startled again. 

“Well, of course! I couldn’t forget a thing about you if I tried,” and now they both are blushing. His is much more obvious than hers, Daisy notices, and it’s pretty cute.

“Why’d you have to leave?” Daisy asks then, shifting her weight to one side and (carefully) crossing her arms.

“There was a fairy infestation at my uncle’s house, and they were ripping and tearing up everything, so we had to go deal with that so they didn’t tear down the mansion,” explains Donald, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“That mansion is an eyesore.”

Donald’s eyes widen dramatically and Daisy dies on the inside. Sometimes she has such a big bill- and Donald is laughing, leaning over the edge of the table laughing and his laugh is a bit scratchy and a bit raspy and a bit too charming for its own good. “It really is,” he agrees wheezily.

“So,” Daisy says, sliding into the open booth across from Donald. “Fairy infestation? How do you deal with those?”

At that, Donald begins to explain how they got rid of the fairies. It’s a funny story, and informational without being condescending or too mansplaining either, and by the end of it both of their drinks are empty and they’re giggling. 

Daisy finally takes a calming breath and lets out a last laugh. When she looks up at Donald, his eyes are nearly sparkling in the flashing lights. She smiles at him and he smiles kind of dopily back. “Do you wanna dance?”

He nearly slips out of his chair in surprise. “Dance? Out there? With you, I mean, me?” She nods and he visibly swallows. “Sure, I can dance.” He slides out of the booth to stand.

“Oh can you?” she teases, taking the hand Donald offers to her. “I’d like to see that-” and she quite nearly goes breathless when he pulls her onto her feet with a careful ease. Their bills are inches away from each other and they both freeze, staring at the other. 

To Donald, Daisy’s eyes are knee-weakeningly beautiful, and he suddenly becomes concerned that if he keeps looking he’ll be unable to dance. “If you’re ready, Ms. Duck,” he manages to say, tearing his eyes away and not noticing her blush. 

“I am,” she says and leads the way onto the dance floor and into the throng of dancing people. Donald has danced on many continents for all sorts of reasons: to impress someone, as part of a group activity, because some demon or spirit, to save his life, to avoid traps, to not die after activating traps, just for fun. And yet, none of that compares to the tightness in Donald’s chest as he watches Daisy half-dance and sing-along to the current pop song blaring over the speakers. Her dress, a knee-length gold formal with white detailing around the neckline and hem, clings to her form in such a way that Donald knows it must be bespoken.

“Did you make it yourself?” He tries to ask her, but the music is too loud.

“What?” She raises her voice and cups her ear. Other dancers bump into them as they stop moving.

“I said, did you make that yourself!” Donald shouts and Daisy shakes her head and taps her ear. She grabs his hand, hers is a little clammy but it sends tingles up Donald’s arm, and pulls him off the dance floor. 

She laughs when they finally make it over to the bar and she snags two seats out from under the beaks and snouts of a large group of friends. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the music,” Daisy says and fans herself. “Whew, that crowd was a little too sweaty."

"Here," Donald says immediately, "lemme get you a drink."

Daisy's smile is bright. "Sure, you can get me a drink. Whatever that pink thing we were drinking, I'll take a second, please."

Donald nods. He stands in his seat and waves to the bartender, a lanky cockatiel. "Excuse me!"

The bartender ignores him and takes the order of a collie college girl. Donald grimaces and yells to the parrot again. He can't hear or probably understand Donald, and he didn't want to shout too loudly and make a scene, but the drink-

Daisy stands up in her seat and leans way over the bar, her entire arm brushing against Donald's and he shivers. 

"Hey, mister!" She holds a five in her hand, "Could I get that fun pink drink?"

The bartender nods at her and after finishing his current order, comes over to serve. Daisy places the five by his hand and he smiles. "The 'fun pink drink'?" He asks Daisy, and she looks to Donald, who the cockatiel turns to look at expectantly, tip in hand.

Donald pulls out his wallet. "Two of them, if you could. And what are they called?"

The parrot squints. "Uhh, did you say two?"

He represses a sigh and nods. To his left, he can see Daisy looking in between him and the other bird.

"Alright, gotcha," and the bartender takes his order and makes the two electric pink cocktails and pushes them towards the two ducks. Daisy's has an orange umbrella and Donald's has a yellow one.

He hands the parrot his debit card and it's promptly returned. Donald puts his wallet back and sits down.

“Thank you,” says Daisy to the bartender and Donald also nods his head in thanks. “What are these called again?”

“It’s the ‘Pink Robin’ special,” the parrot tosses over his shoulder to the couple and leaves to serve another person across the bar.

Daisy raises her glass and Donald raises his in response. They clink, and they sip. Donald’s umbrella pokes him in the eyes but all he can muster is a grumble. He rubs at his eye and Daisy pats his shoulder. 

“Maybe take the umbrella out and save it,” Daisy suggests.

“What, like for a scrapbook?” Donald asks, turning in his seat to face her more.

“Well, sure. I mean, scrapbooking can be interesting,” Daisy starts and Donald doesn't mean to, but he begins to laugh. The drink must be getting to him more than he remembered from his college days.

She frowns and he cuts off his laugh and waves his hands. “No, I didn’t mean to laugh at you,” he tries to explain, ”it’s just that I scrapbook so much. I got sheets of puffy stickers all over my houseboat.” Daisy smiles and laughs and takes a sip of her Pink Robin. She leans forward a bit.

“So what were you saying earlier?” she asks again, and Donald rubs at his neck and takes a long sip of his drink.

“It, it was nothing. I was just remembering how nice your dress was at Glamour’s, and this one is just as nice.” Donald aims for a casual but interested tone and is certain he’s missing the mark. “So, I was wondering if you made this one as well?”

With that, Daisy blushes deep and then straightens, brushes her dress of minuscule dust, and twists her shoulders with pride. “I did! Thank you for noticing, Donald.”

“Of course, doll,” and the alcohol and the dancing must have really loosened his tongue for that to slip out. Or maybe it’s just being in Daisy’s presence that makes Donald feel so punch drunk. And, well, now mortified.

“Doll?” Daisy says with a perfectly arched brow and snorts. She smiles and nudges him. “Call me Daze, if you can’t manage the two syllables.”

“I like Daisy,” Donald tells her and then immediately takes a sip of his own cocktail. When he manages to look back up at her, she’s staring at him with a soft, devouring look in her eyes, and Donald is reminded vividly of some of the more thrilling adventures he’s been on. His heart speeds up.

“So you live on a houseboat,” Daisy says abruptly, and Donald blinks. “How’d you get here then?”

“Oh, my, uh, my houseboat used to be in the bay, but now it’s in my uncle’s pool. I drove my car here,” he says. “I managed to find parking not too far for once.”

Daisy hums and when she leans forward, even more, Donald can smell something citrusy. “I’m usually not this forward, Mr. Duck,” Daisy begins to tell him, and he meets her eyes. They glitter in the flashing lights. “But I was wondering If you would like to come back to mine for the night?”

Donald goes bright red and feels his flush grow even more when Daisy laughs softly. He gathers his sensibilities. He was Donald Duck, Mr. Go-getter, he could do this. “I would love to,” he rushes out, and at her answering smile he mentally fist pumps. Nailed it.

“Are you drunk that much? I’m a bit buzzed but if you’re more than that we should probably take the bus,” Daisy says, pulling a ‘thinking’ face as she did visible calculations in her head. Donald smirks.

“I’ll have you know that I had to out-drink a demon once to escape with my life,” Donald tells Daisy. He doesn’t tell her that Della then also out-drank him. “I can get us to yours.”

She laughs again, and god, she laughed so much and each time was more magical than the last. Donald’s cheeks hurt. “Sounds good, sailor duck,” Daisy says. “Let’s get some water before we go, though.” She hails the cockatiel again and pulls out her own card (before Donald could) to pay for some pretzels and two bottles of water. The water is cool, but Donald sweats under his feathers.

“Ready to go, Mr. Duck?” Daisy says, getting out of her stool. She pulls her jacket all the way on and her purse over her head in one swift move that leaves him reeling. She reaches out a hand and Donald takes it. Daisy lifts him out of his seat with a steely strength he hadn’t been expecting. He accidentally steps too close and their beaks narrowly avoid brushing again. He immediately backs up, but not before he shivers. 

“Sorry, in your space,” says Donald, and a few heartbeats pass before Daisy replies.

“Where’d you park?” She asks and loops her purse arm through his own wing. Donald’s nicer sailor suit (as he doesn’t wear it that often) pulls a little uncomfortably at his armpit, but the discomfort hardly matters at the moment. They both turn a bit, crossing their arms over, and they take one last swig from their Pink Robin Specials. Definitely sweeter than Donald usually favored, but with a tartness that balanced it.

Donald sets his glass down with a clink. “It’s this way,” and he begins to lead Daisy through the crowd with all the skills he’s learned in his adventures. They find themselves outside very quickly. They stumble outside onto the concrete sidewalk and laugh after they manage to squeeze past a giant bull in an over glitzed suit in the line. Donald takes Daisy up Seventh Avenue to get to his car on Tenth. He had somehow managed to find parking behind an old soda shop that he and Della used to visit for milkshakes as ducklings. 

They walk in a comfortable silence towards his car, and when their hands brush, Daisy finds it in herself to take a hold of his hand. The spike of anxiety that action had caused her was well worth the resulting scarlet color Donald’s face had turned and the way his hand holds hers back. When they finally get to his car, Daisy nearly shimmies in her walk. And then she hunches her shoulders as a sharp breeze bites at her. Donald steps more in front of the wind and pulls out his car keys. The headlights flash and the engines make a rumbling sound.

“Hey, Ms. Daisy, what’s your address?” Donald asks her as he opens up her door. 365 days out of the year Daisy would say she didn’t give a hoot or holler about ‘chivalry’ or that kind of thing, but this year was a Leap Year, damnit, and he is just so nice tonight. Daisy just about blushes again as she steps into the passenger seat and he shuts the door behind her, she would almost be concerned she’s gonna pass out from how much delight she’s feeling.

The driver door slams shut and Daisy glances over to see Donald buckling his seatbelt. He gives her such a ‘dad’ look that she has to snort, hand going to cover her beak. “What?” He says, and she giggles as she buckles her own seat. 

“Oh nothing, you just had such a parent look right then,” says Daisy as he starts the engine and begins to back up. “At the IT Party, you said you had kids, right?”

He lights up brilliantly and Daisy can see the proud gleam in his eye. She’s certain that if he hadn’t already shifted into drive that Donald would be pulling out wallet photos right now. For the next ten minutes, Daisy learns about Donald’s triplets, boys, Huey, Louie, and Dewey (Dewey being the yo-yo duckling on stage during the night’s fiasco), and then Webby, his ‘fourth’ triplet as he liked to say. By the time they got to her apartment’s parking space, she is certain she’d find each of his kids absolutely enthralling; she is also absolutely gone on the soft look in his eyes, the smile Donald got on his face when talking about Huey’s recent decoding of some secret riddle to a temple and how smart that kid is. 

They park, and Donald trails off. The stale air in the car is electric, and Daisy almost feels warm as they lean toward each other. Just as their beaks begin to brush over the dividing console, they’re jerked back by their seatbelts. 

“Rassafrassin’ seat belt,” she mutters and hears Donald say, “Aw, phooey.” They look up at each other and laugh softly. Daisy unclicks herself from the seat, and then when Donald begins to struggle with his, she unthinkingly reaches over and pressed the button for him. The seat belt zips back into the car door. She glances up at him and he is staring out the windshield, eyes wide and bright red despite the lack of light.

“Shall we go in?” Daisy asks, grabbing the latch for her car door and beginning to pull it open. 

“I’d love to, Ms. Daisy,” Donald repeats himself from earlier, hoarse. They manage to get out of the car. Daisy makes her way to the door of her building without looking back; she’s not sure what she would do if she looked back and saw Donald looking back with that same level of want in his expression again. She takes her keys out of her purse, and motions in Donald through the unlocked door. He goes in ahead of her. 

“The elevator should be in working order, I complained a lot about it last month and my landlord said he got it fixed while I was working over in New Quackmore,” Daisy says, so Donald goes to the elevator and presses the up button. It dings, they enter the doors, and they shut in front of the two ducks. 

“What floor?” Donald asks. 

“Sixth,” she says, and he presses the correct one. She remembers how they first met, in that elevator in the museum, and he managed to press all the buttons. And he sang to her. God, he really sang to her. “You’re really sweet, you know that, Donald Duck?” 

He glances over before his eyes dart to the floor. “Aw, phooey. Uh, thank you.” Daisy nudges him and nearly falls over. He yelps and nearly falls over himself, just barely catching her. After a stabilizing moment, his hands are strong, not bruising but secure, around her arm and hip, and Daisy was instructed to have fun tonight.

She steps forward and crashes him into the elevator wall. He groans and holds her, hands flying to settle on her lower back just above her tail. The drive Daisy feels right now is only familiar to her in her career goals and personal achievements, never has she felt this way about someone else. It feels like they’re both winning.

Eventually, they make it to her floor. The elevator shudders to a stop, and Daisy steps away from him. His shirt is rumpled and rides up his belly, and the sailor gives her such a bowled-over look that Daisy blushes. The doors open and she grabs his hand. “C’mon. I’m in 6F,” Daisy says and pulls Donald out and closer towards her own door.

He chuckles, a little wheezing. “That’s my middle initial,” he remarks absentmindedly and with a small bit of humor. She snickers. 

“Nice, what is it?” They’re at 6F and she rummages around her purse for her house keys.

“Fauntleroy.”

Daisy nearly drops her them. “Oh my god,” she snorts. He laughs as she finally gets her keys to work and she opens her door. “Who gave you that name?”

At this, Donald hesitates slightly. She pauses in her doorway to give him her attention. “It’s well, I gave myself that name,” he finally tells her with braced shoulders and fidgeting hands. It takes a moment for her to get it, but then it sinks in.

“Oh!” She says and Donald tenses. “That’s cool. Does it mean anything or is it something from a show or...?” 

Donald sighs in relief. That went over much better than he’d hoped. “It’s uh, well my sister’s middle name is Finella, so when I was trying to figure out my middle name she said it should be just as awful so we’d still twin-match.” He follows Daisy deeper into her apartment and closes the door behind him. He brushes his feet on the welcome mat.

She giggles and if Donald didn’t know the ins-and-outs of heart failure from medical training, he’d be dead certain he’s having a heart attack. “What’s her first name?”

“Della.”

“Della Finella Duck?” Daisy says and then cackles. “Oh my god.” Donald chuckles and moves closer to her. They’re in her living area now. It’s an open flow kind of apartment, with the kitchen and living room all a part of the same big space, while Donald can spy two other doors down a short hall. The bedroom and bathroom, he assumes. She turns to him.

“Donald Fauntleroy Duck,” she says, and glances down at him through her lashes. Her eyelids glitter in gold eyeshadow and Donald might admit it later, but the heels giving her a height advantage is definitely doing _something_ to him.

“Daisy, uh-”

“Donna.”

“Daisy Donna Duck,” he finishes. He looks at her. She looks back and then backs him up against her couch. It’s surprisingly comfy, smells new. “Nice sofa,” he says to distract himself from the way her weight feels on top of him.

“Thanks,” Daisy says and places her knees on either side of him. “I just bought it at the furniture depot in St. Canard,” and she leans close to his face and he barely registers anything but her words. “Got a designing deal and decided to trade out my garbo couch from college and get something,” and she wiggles in place and he nearly wheezes, “softer,” and she strokes the side of his neck and Donald has never been more sure in his life that he’s died because there’s no way anything as nice as this sofa, as this night, as Daisy, would happen to him while still breathing.

“Take a breath, Donald, you’re turning purple,” Daisy says and pokes his shoulder, and a deep whoosh of air leaves his lungs. She laughs as he remembers to inhale-exhale. He looks up at her and is captivated by her smile just as much when he first saw her through that museum window. 

“So,” Daisy eventually says in a low voice once he’s regained his breath. “Would you like to see the rest of my apartment, Mr. Donald Duck?” She watches as his eyes widen and then as his eyelids droop, and he smirks up at her in what Daisy can with only a little dignity call a ‘smolder’.

“I’d love too, Ms. Daisy Duck,” he replies in a deep, raspy tone that sends sparks up her spine. “Lead the way.”

They barely make it to her bedroom. What happened next is not something Daisy will ever tell, not to her sister, and definitely not to her nieces, because what happens next could never be recaptured in word. Maybe if Daisy hadn’t felt it so intensely, hadn't felt so secure, hadn't been so delighted with someone in _years_ , she’d be better able to articulate. 

She closes her eyes, satisfied and limbs like jelly, and she buries under her covers. Donald makes a muffled, half-squawk, and tugs the comforter back over to his side. She yanks back and then sleepily and breathily snickers as Donald fixes the blanket issue simply by cuddling up more to her.

Daisy falls asleep.

And she wakes up.

Light is streaming in from her bedroom window and dust dances in the sunray zigzagging through her blinds and across her pillows. For a moment, everything is bliss. She reaches out to find Donald, but her hand is met with thin air and cool sheets. 

Disappointment hits her hard and sinks heavy in her gut. Her head throbs mildly from last night. She withdraws her hand and frowns at her wall for several minutes. Daisy sighs and drags herself into sitting up, and notices a glass of water and two aspirin tablets next to them. She squints.

It’s then that Daisy hears the faint strains of a familiar song (because she had looked him up and searched everywhere and had only been able to find some videos of him singing from the IT Party) and she leaps to her feet. She immediately grimaces. She swigs down the aspirin and grabs a fluffy, pink bathrobe she had stolen from a hotel in New Quackmore, and pokes her head out her bedroom door.

“Donald?” She calls out, and with a deep inhale she smells something _good_. Daisy makes her way to her kitchen (area) and is greeted with the sight of Donald dancing in front of the stove, flipping a pancake in some pan he must have dug out from her cabinets. He’s wearing a blanket throw draped over his shoulders, and if Dahlia ever found out how sickeningly domestic Daisy felt in that moment, she’d laugh her head off.

She walks up behind him, and after Donald finishes a particularly piercing high-note in his singing, he grins at her, and flips the pancake onto the plated pile she’s just noticed. They’re all golden, just a little crispy on some edges. “Help yourself,” he says. 

Daisy takes him up on the offer, snagging a paper plate and shoveling several onto her dish. She sets her food down at her two-person eating table, situated somewhere not quite in the living room, but not too close to the counter space. Daisy then grabs a carton of orange juice from the fridge and when she opens the cabinet door for her drinking glasses, she tosses over her shoulder, “Do you want juice, Mr. Duck?”

“I’d love some, Ms. Duck,” he replies back, and she grabs two. The juice is poured, and the pancakes are finished, and the silverware set, and Daisy is sitting down to a pancake breakfast with Donald Duck, the bird she’s been pining after for weeks and yet this resolution feels so much more calm, so much more pleasant than any she had expected. Between their two tempers, hers not as obvious but no less eruptive, she had been certain that if they ever saw each other again they would be yelling. And yet, Daisy realizes as she watches Donald’s hands flex around his utensils as he cuts his pancakes, this is so much better than anything it could have been. A little embarrassing, given they reconnected while clubbing, she flushes and hastily takes a sip of her juice.

When the last bite is finally eaten, Donald collects the dishes. He does it on autopilot because there’s nothing else he can think of doing so he can stay longer. He has responsibilities to take care of, things to do before his family gets back later today and he’s needed for three different things at once. But, the tap water is hot, and the sponge behind the faucet is a little grimy, and it refocuses his attention. But, but, but. He can hear Daisy storing the extra pancakes in some Quakerware and putting them in the fridge for later. He’s glad she liked them. He hadn’t been sure making breakfast had been the right move, but whenever he had crashed at José’s and Panchito’s in college after a gig, they took longer to kick him out if he made some pancakes. (Not that the kicking out was in a mean spirit, it’s just that they were busy and hungover college kids with homework and with all three of them in the same dorm, getting the right things done became unmanageable).

And then the dishes are all sparkling and resting on the drying rack, and Daisy fidgets with her robe tie. They both sort of stand near, facing the other, and shift in place and look anywhere but each other's eyes. 

“I-

“Well-”

And they smile at each other and chuckle a little. Donald unwraps the blanket throw from his shoulders and folds it up in his hands. “I guess you’ll be needing this back,” he says and shoves it to her. She takes it and rubs her hand against its softness.

“It is nearly noon,” Daisy says, unsure of what else to say. Her hands grip uselessly at the navy blue-and-grey blanket. “I suppose you’re leaving.” His sailor uniform is already on, rumpled from its treatment last night and Donald nods his head. 

“I should probably make sure the houseboat didn’t sink again,” Donald grimaces and she raises her eyebrows.

“ _Again?_ ”

He snorts and rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “Things tend to fall apart around me.”

That steels something in her and, very abruptly, she steps closer to Donald to pull open the kitchen junk drawer. He leans away, but his nearby warmth is comforting, and Daisy finds a black marker and a scrap piece of paper. One side advertises eight-dollar large pizza. 

“Here,” she says, and scribbles her personal cell phone number onto it. She takes it and shoves it into Donald’s hands. “Call me?”

Donald looks helplessly at Daisy, the scrap paper monumental in his clutching hands. “I,” he clears his throat. “I can do that.”

Daisy smiles and it’s just like the sun when it woke him up earlier: blinding and priceless. “I’d like to see that,” she tells him. He swallows roughly.

“Ms. Daisy Donna Duck,” he begins. “Can I kiss you?” Her face transforms when she smiles so genuinely.

“I thought you’d never ask, Mr. Donald Fauntleroy Duck,” and she grabs him by the lapels and it’s chaste, and it’s perfect, and it’s better than any treasure or artifact Donald has ever seen on all his adventures. His hands cradle her face, and the kiss is unbroken until Daisy has to bring her face back to scratch where the paper with her digits had been poking at her cheek, secure in one of Donald’s hands. They laugh, and he leans back in to kiss her again, shorter and sweeter this time.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” he says when they finally separate and she grins softly. Her perfectly coiffed hairstyle from the previous night hadn’t been brushed out in their rush and is now a haphazard, fly-away bun. He brushes a lock of hair away and she smoothes out his uniform. 

Daisy walks him to the door and opens it, holding it for him. He exits before turning around to face her in the doorway. “Bye,” he can’t help but grin, and her resulting wave and giggle has him nearly floating on cloud nine. When he finally gets into his car and closes the driver-side door, he pulls out his cracked phone and inputs the number he’s been given. Donald saves her number as ‘Ms. Duck’ and is unable to resist placing a swirling heart emoji next to it. He immediately sends her a text with his name so she has his cell number, and grins at the replying anchor, duck, and wine emoji.

He sighs and slides down in his seat. What a night. What a lady.


End file.
